The tires gripped the gravel as Sebastian pressed the gas pedal. The flames from Rosegate faded in the rearview mirror, leaving only a glow in the dark. Sirens grew louder, adding to the chaos we had just escaped. Broken glass and thick smoke swirled as wind from the cracked window blurred the initials and dates.
"Talk to me," Sebastian said, breaking through the noise of the car. He gripped the wheel with one hand and reached across to hold the ledger before it blew away. His fingers touched mine briefly, sending a jolt through me. "What did you see back there? That figure on the lawn—who was it?"
I shook my head. Adrenaline still buzzed in my veins, leaving me empty. My silk gown felt damp from the smoke we had run from. "Not Julian. Not Harrow. Someone... taller. Maybe hooded? Like the house sent out a ghost to see us off." I laughed, but it felt wrong. "Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Who wouldn't be."
He didn't smile or engage with my joke. He looked in the mirror, searching the dark road behind us. "Paranoia helps keep you safe in Hartwell circles. But that fire? It wasn't random. Someone wanted a distraction or a cleanup." He paused as we reached the top of a hill, and Hartwell's silhouette appeared ahead, looming under the moon. Most windows were dark, except for a faint light in the west wing—my wing. "We need to get inside, and secure the ledgers you have. Then... we talk. About everything."
That word, "everything," felt heavy, mixed with the smoke still stinging my nose. The favor. The debts. How his presence felt less. I nodded and gathered the pages back into my clutch with trembling hands. "Fine. No more half truths, Sebastian. If we're burning bridges tonight, let's at least know where we're going."
Hartwell loomed as we drove up the drive, the gates slamming shut behind us like a final decision. The house was eerily quiet—no servants moving around, no Mrs. Dalloway's footsteps greeting our return. Only the creaking of floorboards as we entered, with the air thick with lemon oil trying to hide something sharper. Was it cedar? No. smoke again, faint but persistent, coming from the vents.
Sebastian locked the door efficiently. "Upstairs. Your dressing room is safest—only you and I can enter. Apparently." He glanced at me, the hint of a smirk returning but not reaching his eyes. We climbed the stairs together, my heels muffled on the carpet, his steps soundless. At the top of the stairs, he paused, hand on the banister. "Wait. did you hear that?"
I listened closely. A faint rustling noise, came from the library. My heart raced as the ledger felt heavy in my grip. "Julian?" I whispered.
"Or worse." He moved quickly, pulling a letter opener from his jacket—an improvised weapon. I followed, fear pulsing through me.
The library door stood ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. Inside, a figure bent over the desk, back to us—slender, silver hair in a messy bun, sifting through what looked like... my father's old letters? Not Julian's neat notes, but yellowed envelopes with faded crests.
"Aunt Lydia?" The name slipped out before I could stop myself. My father's estranged sister, the family archivist who had disappeared into dusty rooms years ago, mumbling about "codes in the margins." She had always been quirky, lecturing me on ink blots in old ledgers. Last I knew, she was in the east wing, decoding family history.
She straightened slowly. Her eyes were sharp but warm, filled with mischief. A small, knowing smile appeared on her lips. "Aurelia, dear. It's about time to tell you everything. She held up an envelope with its seal broken, revealing a ledger page. "I heard about Rosegate on the wireless. Quite dramatic for Frederick. Come in, both of you. Doors like these don't stay closed for long."
I stepped forward, with Sebastian beside me, his tension easing but still present. "Aunt Lydia, what are you—? The fire, the ledgers—"
She waved her hand, motioning us inside. "The fire is a message child. And these?" She pointed to the stack. "They are clues. Your father's puzzles weren't meant for the bonfire. Sit down. We need to solve these before the trustees arrive." Her gaze focused on my clutch. "You brought the key, right? Good. But watch out for the smoke—it's not just from Rosegate. It's in these walls, too."
As I sat in the leather chair and spread the ledger pages on the desk, I felt a chill. The room smelled like old paper and smoke. From the corner of my eye, I saw moths flying around the lamp. Aunt Lydia leaned in and traced a faded initial. "R.G."—it meant not just Rosegate, but something deeper. "Start here," she said softly. "But be careful the sibling he never mentioned? She's closer than you think."
Sebastian's hand brushed against mine under the table, a quiet promise as everything unfolded. Outside, the wind shook the windows, carrying a sound that felt too much like a name. Not mine. Hers.
When the clock struck midnight, the first "Stop" note of the night slipped under the library door—written in a hand I almost recognized.
The clock's sound echoed through the library, interrupting our focus on the ledger. Aunt Lydia's eyes quickly looked to the door, as if she expected someone to arrive at this moment. A note slipped into the room, a piece of cream paper against the polished oak floor, its edges curling like a beckoning finger. Moths flew wildly around the lamp, casting shadows.
I reached for it before Sebastian could grab the paper from the floor. The ink was fresh and slightly sticky. The handwriting was fancy, especially the 'S,' reminding me of childhood letters. It simply said, "Stop." Just that one word, underlined twice, as if it wanted to warn me.
"Whoever it is is getting bold," Sebastian said, standing up and walking to the door. He opened it slightly to look down the dim hallway. He heard nothing but the settling house and the wind outside. He closed the door and locked it, but he remained tense. "Or desperate."
Aunt Lydia stayed still, her eyes on the note in my hand as if it were a vital clue. She adjusted her glasses and held out her hand. "Let me see that, dear." I hesitated but passed it to her, watching as she held it up to the light. "Ah, I see it—the way the 'p' slants matches the notes in your father's old diaries. This is real. It's family."
Family. My mind flashed back to the earlier "Stop" notes—the one in the ledger and the crumpled note under my door—each one tightening around my throat. "You mean Julian? He's already shown his hand at Rosegate. Or Harrow, trying to mess with me from afar?"
She shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips that held no joy, just tiredness. "No, dear. This isn't about cousins or greedy trustees. This is blood calling out. Your father, Frederick, had shadows, but he also had light. He had a daughter from a brief affair, hidden to protect her from his own issue. She live a private life, She wrote to him once in code, asking for a place at Hartwell's. He burned the letters but kept the memories—in these margins, in these warnings."
A half sister. The revelation struck me. The figure I saw on Rosegate's lawn, taller and hooded flashed in my mind, not a ghost but real, maybe the one who silently signaled me to "Run" through the chaos. Was she protecting me? Or leading me into danger? "Why now?" I asked, my voice trembling. "If she has been out there this whole time, why send the notes? Why stop me from digging further?"
Aunt Lydia's smile faded as she looked at the moths now clustering by the lamp, their wings brushing against the shade. "Because you're getting too close, Aurelia. The ledgers aren't just about money—they're keys to legitimacy. To her claim on Hartwell, on everything. If you figure it out first..." She pointed again to the initial "R.G." "Rosegate was the first lock. The next is in the attic. There's a code hidden in the family portraits—tiny shifts in the eyes, dates that are just off by one. I've been waiting for you to bring the passion back to it."
Sebastian took my hand under the table, holding it firmly, his thumb tracing small circles on my knuckles—a steady rhythm against my racing heart. "We go at dawn," he said, making it clear there was no room for disagreement, though his eyes searched mine for any signs of doubt. "No more midnight visitors. And you're not going alone."
I squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth as a brief comfort. Dawn felt far away, with smoke thickening in the vents. The name on the breeze sharpened "Elara?" but then faded. Outside, a garden lantern flickered brightly for a moment before going out.
As the moths swirled around us, I understood that the real unraveling had just begun. The note wasn't a stop. it was an invitation—to claim my legacy or lose it to the sister I never knew. In the heart of Hartwell, where every shadow held a story, I couldn't tell whether the thought of claiming my legacy or facing my sister scared me more.